All That You Rely On
by Handpicked Happiness
Summary: John is the one who takes the fall. Sherlock is left to deal with his grief. [!Trigger! Depression. Drug use. Self harm.]


**AN: **Written as a part of the Feels Fiction War I was having with my friend on tumblr. In which we tried to out-angst each other. Features lyrics from Andrew Belle's _In My Veins._

* * *

**Nothing goes as planned.  
****Everything will break.**

Two weeks. That's all it took.

Two weeks before he could no longer distract himself, before he started to crack, before he started slipping through his own trembling fingers. He often caught himself speaking to an empty room before he realised he was alone, so uselessly alone. Trapped inside his own head, subject to his own memory, repeating those last moments over and over.  
The phone vibrating in his hand. _'Sherlock, stop there.'  
_Confusion. _'Look up, I'm on the roof'  
_ John standing atop the building. _'I can't come down; we'll have to do it like this.'_  
Deduction.  
Panic.  
_'Goodbye, Sherlock'_

**_People say goodbye,  
In their own special way._**

It wasn't long until it consumed him.

Having looked at very angle, obsessed over every detail, every word, every movement leading up to that moment – Sherlock could find no answers. His confusion and guilt burrowed deep under his skin, inescapable. It consumed him, the facts becoming distorted beyond reason. Panic and doubt set in shortly after, his skills were slipping, Sherlock could feel himself deteriorating. He could no longer take cases, too often turning to John for his opinion before recoiling with the realisation that his voice was silenced. Eventually it was all he could do to hold on to himself.

**_Everything is dark.  
It's more than you can take._**

Soon enough, even that was no longer an option.

It started as an itch, a nagging beneath his skin, a tremble in his fingers. The guilt, the confusion, the questions were picking away at his resolve. His waking hours brought the memory, replayed and analysed constantly, questions posed and questions left unanswered. While his dreams brought the imagination he so longed to escape. The image of his hand pressed against John's back, standing atop the building beside him, the pressure on his fingers as he pushes, John hitting the ground with a sickening thud. Sherlock began to claw at himself, unable to find even a momentary breath of peace, desperately he searched for relief.

**_But you catch a glimpse of sunlight.  
Shining, shining down on your face._**

Old addictions resurfaced. Old habits died hard.

With nowhere left to run, no where he could hide from the terrors of his own minds' making – Sherlock turned to an old escape. The pressure lifted off him as the high took over, rushing through him and allowing him to breathe, just for a little while. John sat across from him, settled into the armchair Sherlock could no longer bear to look at, his face set in a worried grimace. John never spoke, and Sherlock didn't care. He sat, and looked, drinking in the features he missed so achingly. He never realised that he was going to cry until the wet droplets left shining tracks down his pale cheeks. When the high faded, when he started to sink back down into reality, John's skin would grow pale, his eyes would remain open but become unseeing, a shocking flash of colour would appear down the side of his face as the blood flowed, spreading across his unchanging features.  
Eventually the high began to affect him less and less, the day that John appeared already smeared with blood was the day that Sherlock decided it wasn't enough. The nagging underneath his skin increased, the itch becoming unbearable as if there were something he needed to rid himself of, something inside him that was causing all of this.

**_Oh you're in my veins.  
And I cannot get you out._**

His next escape was much more effective, and much less expensive – not that things as trivial as money ever crossed his mind anymore. The blood trickling from his own skin ensured that the blood flowing down John's head did not make an appearance. He watched the vibrant colour splash against the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, as stark a contrast as it was against his pallid skin. He watched. And waited. Waited to see that vile thing flow out from him, the infection, the sickness that gripped him tight and squeezed the air from his lungs.  
John's ghostly figure kneeled next to Sherlock's body where it slumped against the wall. His lips parted, as if he were about to speak, but no words came. A strained smile stretched across Sherlock's cracked lips, a final tear rolling over his cheek and dropping onto the tile, mixing with his own blood.

**_Oh no, I cannot get you._**


End file.
